Proportion--Kenneth P. Gurney

The valley fades into dusk, washed
by a cool rain dressed in rainbows.

Elsewhere, you color the sky,
take time to choose each brush stroke.

The greens I see are the butterfly bushes
you planted recently and water religiously.

I come from riding my bicycle
up the long hill that leads to the mountain.

The shovel leans upon the gate,
forgotten after immediate need vanished.

I depart from my flannel shirt, my blue jeans
with the pants leg clipped tight.

The world is much smaller and larger
than I like to think. When it is large

I stop and look with wonder. And,
when it is small, I am angry

it does not fit into my pocket
or on my bicycle rack, so I

may carry it to your studio
with the blue jay feather I found

at the end of Indian School Road
where a path leads up into darker greens.